


The Curse of Saint Valentine

by llassah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Fleshlight Abuse, Hand Jobs, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Moon, Mattress Abuse, Mild Gore, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Pining, Praise Kink, Rimming, Romance, Small Woodland Animals Abuse, Top Derek Hale, Top Stiles Stilinski, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>There are a few werewolves, largely dismissed as crocks by the general population, who claim that Valentine's Day has been commercialized by werewolves who have infiltrated the card publishing industry in order to give people an explanation for the intense increase in overblown futile romantic gestures at this time of year. Werewolves, on the second full moon of the year, are overcome with both an intense physical desire and the overwhelming urge to woo their chosen mate.</em> </p><p>Derek Hale's struck down by the Curse of Saint Valentine. It's not all bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of Saint Valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drunktuesdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/gifts).



> Drunktuesdaze, wise and beautiful person that she is, inspired this work with [this beautiful post](http://drunktuesdaze.tumblr.com/post/68715019155/arallara-derek-hale-porn-tbh-yep-yep) . I'm sorry I didn't include the interlude with the jam jar.

Growing up, they'd called it the Curse of Saint Valentine. Laura, ringleader of all their games, had sat in the dark, her face lit up by a torch under her chin, eyes flashing gold, and spoken in hushed tones about the second full moon in the year, about the 'bestial lust-filled urges' werewolves would suffer from, using descriptions gleaned from the racier wolfmance novels their mother pretended she didn't read. It had been a joke back then, a source of some curiosity and fear. They hadn't known, back then, didn't take it seriously. It's yet another thing he wants to shake his younger self for as he packs chains, three bottles of lube, rope laced with wolfsbane, two well-read dirty novels, three dildos, a fleshlight, five bottles of Gatorade, one of Stiles’s old shirts and two pairs of police issue handcuffs into his already nearly full backpack.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Scott asks, and Derek tries not to sigh too much.

“I'm fine. It's in hand. You go have fun. Use protection, drink plenty of fluid.”

Allison's taken Isaac to her family's cabin in Oregon, Scott's rented one of the holiday cabins at the western edge of the preserve. He props the phone between his chin and his shoulder as he tries to get his backpack fastened properly. “I can cope just fine, here. I've got a cabin I use for the—for this.”

“Derek...”

"Scott. It's fine. Just—you won't hear from me for a few days. I'll see you soon, okay?"

He ends the call before Scott can say anything else. The worst thing wasn't the physical side of it. Discomfort, he could cope with. The worst thing was the thing that had made them clutch pillows to their hearts as cubs, to mock swoon and put on high, breathy voices. The worst thing was the yearning. There are a few werewolves, largely dismissed as crocks by the general population, who claim that Valentine's Day has been commercialized by werewolves who have infiltrated the card publishing industry in order to give people an explanation for the intense increase in overblown futile romantic gestures at this time of year. Werewolves, on the second full moon of the year, are overcome with both an intense physical desire and the overwhelming urge to woo their chosen mate. 

Derek, with his aching heart and the stirring beginnings of an intrusive and pervasive lust, was exactly the sort of poor fucker Laura would have read about, to gasps and wide eyes from the rest of the kids. Derek would have been the one they laughed at, mocked with a breathless sort of fascination. He locks up the loft, puts on his backpack and grimly starts the fifteen mile hike to the cabin in the woods that they all used to call 'the love shack'. The Curse of Saint Valentine. He can hear them laughing at him even now.

It's actually a beautiful day. There's a particular crispness to the air, a slight frost on the ground and curling the edges of the leaves. He tries to enjoy the day, ignore the tug that pulls him back into town. Ten miles in and his dick's chafing in his jeans. He breathes deeply, grateful for the seclusion of the forest as he rests his forehead on an oak tree and tries not to hump the air. He knows that once he gives in, once he comes for the first time, the next few days will be a blur of jerking off, knotting his fist and fucking himself with the dildo, four days of sweat and spunk, writhing on the floor and just needing, trying not to howl because he knows that whatever he does, however much he jerks off, fucks himself, distracts himself with pain, it won't be enough. That's where the chains come in.

It's not romantic. It's fucking _miserable_.

He gets to the cabin at noon, unlocks the doors and opens the shutters to air the place out. There are hurricane lamps dotted about the place, a small two ring gas stove and a battered pan, a wood burner and a pile of wood and kindling, some more long dated cans of food, a bare mattress, a spindly-legged table, and a chair. Someone, a few generations back, has pinned an embroidered sampler to the wall, with the words 'home sweet home' neatly stitched in copperplate. It's possible that the morbid sense of humor is a Hale trait through and through. The walls and floorboards are clawed; dried blood's spattered on a few patches. He can smell phantom hints of past desperation, the old writhing need that plagues them on the full moon. He unpacks quickly, hooks the chains through the sturdy loops on the floor, puts the wolfsbane rope, still in its sealed bag, in easy reach. His hands shake a little as he lights the gas stove, heats up some canned stew, made from a nondescript meat of some sort. He eats it out of the pan with the wooden spoon. His dick's so hard it's painful. It won't be long before he has to start this whole miserable process. Minutes. With a grim mental toast to prior generations of Hales, hapless victims of unrequited love, he takes off all his clothes, turns off the stove, and wraps his hand around his straining dick.

The first time, he nuts so quickly he's bent double with it, come spilling out onto his fingers as he almost wheezes with the force of it. He doesn't knot this time, doesn't really get soft either. He uses his come as slick this time, starts to jerk off again, drops to his knees and closes his eyes. Doesn't need any mental images, any kind of fantasy. The pressure of his hand, with the little twist he puts in at the head is enough. He swipes his thumb over the head a few times, bites his lip at the feel of his foreskin as he plays with it, the slick easing his way as he pulls it back, almost tugging at it. No knot this time either. He draws it out this time, lets it build and crest. His orgasm isn't violent, seems to leave him between breaths, spunk dribbling out onto the wooden floor. The smell of his rut's heavy in the air, thick. He closes the shutters again, locks the door. It's not time to chain himself up yet. He drinks some Gatorade, rubs absently at the come that's already drying on his belly. No point in washing it off.

He lies down on the mattress, clouds of dust pluming up as his weight hits it, a few of the springs digging into his back. He can smell old sweat and spunk, the slightly chemical smell of lube. A little wolfsbane, from some desperate Hale a few generations back. More old blood, too. Hands behind his head, he stares at the ceiling tracing the cobwebs until his eyes slide shut and he has a fitful, feverish sleep, hands clenched, ignoring the insistent demands of his body.

He wakes up humping the mattress, rubbing his dick against the rough edge of the piping, biting into it as he ruts, claws tearing into the fabric. He comes before he's properly aware of where he is, has to start jerking off almost immediately as the fever returns. His balls are actually aching, feel full, tender. His come slicks the way as he sets a fast pace, hand stripping ruthlessly up and down his dick. He just wants to come, so he brings his other hand down to press against the skin behind his balls, plants his feet solidly on the mattress and lets himself arch up off it, resting on his shoulders as he closes his eyes, hand moving faster still. Even with his come slicking the way, it’s a little harsh, and it’s the edge of pain that sets him off, makes his back bow and he comes again, whining high in his throat, his balls throbbing as his orgasm strips through him in waves. He gets come in his beard this time.

He still hasn’t knotted. It’s the start of the second day, and so far it hasn’t been too terrible. It’ll get terrible soon, but his urges so far have been manageable. He wants to come, not mate. That’ll change, and however much he digs his teeth into the fabric of Stiles’s shirt, however much he buries his face in it as he jerks off, however securely he chains himself to the floor, it’ll still be a struggle to resist going to Stiles. He has to. Stiles isn’t—he isn’t. Doesn’t.

He does situps until he’s a little calmer, cleans himself up and goes for a run while his head’s clear. He catches five rabbits, lays them out on the deck in front of the cabin and has his phone out to take a picture to send to Stiles before he’s even realized what he’s doing, and if he’d been a little more out of it, those rabbits would have been on Stiles’s pillow. Even skinning and gutting the rabbits doesn’t make his boner go down. He eats one of them raw, the blood warm in his mouth, loving the soft give of its flesh as he tears it with his teeth. He’s palming his dick at the same time, pressing the heel of his hand against the worn denim of his jeans. He can still taste blood, can smell it in the air. 

This time, he can feel the base of his dick thickening, presses his fingers down and onto it as he humps his hand, other hand clawed on the floorboard, scraping the old rotted wood as he pants out into the morning air, his kills at his bare feet. He comes in his jeans this time, his spunk soaking through the denim, waves of it rolling right through him as he squeezes the knot. It’s a continuous, shivering orgasm that lasts for about ten minutes, leaves him feeling shaky and drained as he crouches, his head hanging down, breeze cool on the back of his neck as he breathes, mind quiet, satisfied for now.

He gets the rabbits strung out, washes in the creek to the south of the cabin. He knows that this is the last period of clarity he’ll have until this whole miserable ordeal is over. He’d prepared Scott and Isaac for the mating moon as much as he could, told them to stock up on food and drink, told them not to worry about the emotional side, the urge to provide and to woo, told them not to be ashamed of it, that it was natural and right, and that this time of year was a precious gift, because for them, it was. He’d had a separate conversation with Kira and Allison, talked them through the instincts that would be working on Scott and Isaac. It had involved more anatomically correct drawings of werewolf dicks than he had intended, but he’d done what he could. Kira had stopped him before he could leave, her hand warm on his arm, eyes bright and curious. “What about you? What are you going to do?” she’d asked. He’d just smiled at her, shrugged.

“I’ll get by,” he’d said, then distracted her by pointing out a squirrel. She still hasn’t ironed out the kinks in her fox instincts, and it’s the perfect way to avoid uncomfortable discussions. He hasn’t told anyone else how to do this. She’s incredible at asking weird questions at odd times, and that’s something he’s fond of usually, but not with this. Not with these horrible few days. He walks naked back to the cabin, hangs his jeans over the end of the porch, steps carefully over the shining patches of blood and spunk on the wooden boards. He puts the lube and sex toys next to the mattress, drinks another bottle of water and sits on the mattress, back to the wall, with one of the books he brought. On the cover, a werewolf stands on top of a mountain, shirt ripped open, cradling a swooning boy in his arms, head cradled against his shoulder, slightly parted lips close to the werewolf’s throat. He’d ordered it a month ago in a fit of mild desperation. 

Like everything else in this damned place, it’s a substitute for the real thing, but he’d always secretly enjoyed the extracts of his mother’s romance novels that Laura had read to shrieks of delighted laughter from everyone else. They’d called them ‘snarlequins’, and been charmed by their cleverness. His mother had caught him reading one of them once, when he was thirteen, and he’d been mortified, turned on in an abstract sort of way. She’d kissed him on the forehead, told him that there was nothing to be ashamed of, that he was her bright, darling boy, and that he’d make someone very happy one day. He rests his chin on his knees, wraps his arms around them and lets himself miss her for a little while. 

He starts reading once he’s forced down some unappetising canned broth, made himself eat two bananas and drink another Gatorade. The novel’s set in some mythical Scottish highland fiefdom. There are references to heather, gorse and furze on every second page, and the servants all have phonetically written accents. The werewolf and the human boy don’t like each other at first. The human boy’s a second son of some sort of made up nobleman of clan whatever, but he has eyes the color of honey, and his lips are tantalizing, and he smells so good to the werewolf that the werewolf can’t speak properly, can only glare, and—

His hand’s on his dick before he’s even really aware of it, as he keeps rereading their first encounter, fingers sweating as they jerk convulsively on the page, and this time, simply jerking off one handed isn’t enough. He throws the book down, gets the bottle of lube and squirts it clumsily onto his palm and rubs it on both hands. Instead of jerking off, he joins both hands and fucks into them, makes them into a tight clasp for him to rut into. He snaps his hips up again and again but it’s not enough. With a groan he rolls over onto his front, ass in the air as he fucks his fists, whining into the mattress as he knots, as the edge of it catches his joined hands and he forces it in to their tight press, forces his hands apart just enough and knots himself, milks himself dry with a steady, dirty squeeze, all spunk and whimpering sobs. He slumps forward, ass still in the air, and pants through his mouth, face covered in snot and tears, gathers his strength for the next wave. The moon’s up, nearly full. This can only get worse.

The next time, he doesn’t bother moving from his position on the bed, just grabs the nearest toy to the bed and lubes it up. It’s a dildo, ridged all the way up, with a wicked curve to the tip of it. He fingers himself open perfunctorily, presses and twists without bothering to find his prostate. He likes the feeling, loves to be pinned down and fucked. It sometimes feels like a punishment, sometimes absolution. He slicks the dildo up a little bit more, presses it in slowly, feels every ridge as it slides sweetly into his ass. This isn’t the biggest toy he owns. He can work up to that if he needs it. He can feel the lube trickling down his asscrack, down to his balls. It feels cold, tickles. He holds himself up with one arm, pushes the dildo into him, pulls it out in a steady rhythm. It’s a test of control more than anything. His stomach muscles quiver, and his dick’s so hard it’s smearing precome on his sweating skin, tucked up close to his navel. He keeps it slow. Pushes it in, keeps it there and makes himself clench around it, which hurts like holy fucking hell, holds it until he can’t any more then lets himself relax again, panting, head hanging down. He’s getting close, now. He wants to touch his dick, knows he can finish like that, takes deep breaths for control, keeps the hand on the dildo fucking himself steadily as he picks apart all the scents in the room to get himself a little more under control. Under the spunk, lube, and rabbit blood, there’s the stew, some of his food supplies. The forest outside, and the gas of the lamps and the stove, and then—

 _Stiles_. His t shirt, the scent of his sweat, of everything that Derek’s memorized over the years, and that’s it, that’s his control gone as behind his closed eyes it’s Stiles fucking him, Stiles speeding up the thrusts of the dildo, angling it towards his prostate, whispering filth into his ears as he takes him apart in the tenderest, dirtiest ways, watching him with those sharp eyes as he talks him through it, tells him how good he is, how obedient, just taking it, and Derek comes untouched, pleasure flashing through him as spurt after spurt of come dribbles out onto the mattress again. He rolls onto his side, closes his eyes and pulls the dildo out gingerly, drops it on the floor and shifts at the ache, the emptiness. He’s so slick, so open still. Hollow. Allowing himself to think about Stiles reminds him once again why this fucking moon is such a curse. He _yearns_. However many times he comes, in however many ways, he’s still alone. If he let himself, he’d be howling outside Stiles’s window right now.

Wiping his hand on the mattress, he stumbles out of bed, disinfects the dildo and puts it back in the ranks, turns off all the gas lamps except the one next to the mattress, gets one of the thin blankets from the shelves above the bed and lies in the sparse dry part of the mattress, reads some more of the book. The human misunderstands the werewolf, they argue more. It snows, up in the mountain and it makes the route they’re taking impassable. They shelter for the night, huddled in a cave together, hate each other but cling to each other for warmth. They need each other, for those few, difficult days. They come to know each other a little better, without the warring of their two clans, in this secluded place where all they have are words and the warmth of the bodies, the animal instinct for closeness. They trade secrets, and it’s easy and right. He drifts off to sleep as the snow starts to melt a little. A sprig of heather becomes visible on the hillside. The boy gives it to the werewolf as a token, and he promises to wear it as a sign of their friendship. The werewolf does the same.

He wakes up at two in the morning to the burnt smell of the gas lamp and the insistent demands of his dick. A storm’s picked up, the wind battering the walls of the cabin, rushing through the gaps in the rotten wood, piercing the thin blanket. He’s cold, aching. Shivers run through him as he jerks off, damp from where he’s rolled onto the wet patch of the mattress. All he smells is spunk and the sour smell of the lamp wick, and when he comes it doesn’t feel like a release at all, just brings more miserable clarity. He screws up some newspaper, feeds it into the woodburning stove, puts the kindling in, hoping it’s dry enough. The fire smokes a little at first, but he’s persistent, blows at it gently until it’s warming the chimney properly. It’s flat topped, and he puts the kettle hanging on the wall on top with a bottle of his water in it. He wraps himself in one of the softer blankets and watches the flames, takes his comfort from the warmth of the fire.

His backpack’s nearby, Stiles’s t-shirt poking out of it. He pulls it out, buries his face in it, inhaling deeply. Any other night, he’d be checking Stiles was asleep and safe. Watching over him, at least for a little bit. Stiles is better now, but before, when it was bad, they’d take shifts. He rubs the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger, wonders if there’s ever a time when he won’t worry about him. He puts another log in the stove, sits cross legged and clears his mind, listens to the rain until he’s in a sort of trance, calmed by this little piece of Stiles he’s kept to himself.

If the forums are to be believed, he’s got another day and night of this. In New York, he was too broken to want anyone. They just locked themselves in their bedrooms and jerked off for a few days, agreed never to talk about it, but to spend the days afterwards in constant contact, them against the world. In Beacon Hills, they were under attack, so the mating moon was just something to be brushed off, an extra irritation, but nothing to really pay much attention to. Now, though. Now, things are stable. They have time to build, to grow. Derek’s happy. Well, not right now, looking at the line of sex toys, the dogeared novel and the spunk covered mattress, but in general. He’s got a pot plant. He’s part of a farmshare scheme. 

He shuts the stove down and puts the kettle on the trivet, looks down at his erection tenting the blanket, sighs. His dick hurts, even with werewolf healing, and he feels cold, even with the fire still gently glowing. He grabs the fleshlight, squirts a generous amount of lube into it, kicks himself free of the blanket. He’s shaking, a little, can’t get himself under control. He’s left it too long, masked his need by meditating, by pretending he doesn’t ache with want and loneliness. He slicks his dick up, too, presses in slowly. The first half an inch is tight, cold but resembling flesh, then it’s a little looser as he goes in further, a velvety clasp around his dick. He slips in easily, adjusts the suction so there’s pressure going out, a tight clutch around him. It’s sensation without any of the usual sensory input, but it works, and soon he’s on the floor, flat on his back, fucking up into it, head thrown back as his hips snap and his balls slap against the outside of the tube. He’s holding it with both hands, with all his strength, and it feels like coming’s almost going to be enough this time, like he’ll be able to sleep afterwards as the pushing and pulling works his dick so sweetly and he just—he grips it harder, mouth open as he pants and he—

Broken plastic digs into his clawed out hands, all pressure and suction gone and he just stares at it for a few moments, mid thrust. His control’s all shot to pieces; he just lets out this long, mournful howl, lets out every bit of his loneliness until he can hear it echoing across the valley then he slumps to the floor, hands bleeding from the broken plastic and breathes, trying to get himself back together.

In his backpack, his phone rings. Derek sighs. He’d forgotten about Scott, answers it on the third ring, tries to breathe normally. It’s four in the morning. He should be asleep.

“Scott, I—”

“Derek, hey man, is everything okay?”

“Fine— everything's— yeah. Never better. I stubbed my toe. Don't come near me. I'm fine.”

Scott sighs. He can hear him getting out of bed, padding out into another room. From the echo, it’s the bathroom. “Derek, this is so dumb. It’s four in the morning. If things were okay, you’d be asleep, not—I don’t know, awake and stubbing your toe or whatever. I’m worried about you, and so’s Kira. Please be honest with me, ‘cause your breathing’s kind of ragged there. Is everything really okay?”

Derek stares at the fleshlight, at the plastic in his hand that he can’t quite summon up the energy to pluck out. “It’s the Curse of Saint Valentine. That’s what we used to call it. When we were kids. The second moon of the year. When you have someone who loves you back, it’s fine. I don’t. I— I think I'm about to break my dick.”

For a long moment, there’s silence on the other end of the line, then Scott takes a breath, lets it out. “Jesus fuck. What do you need? What can I do? I can get Sti—”

“No! Keep him away!”

“Dude. Is— it's Stiles. I—man, I thought I smelled something—”

“Scott. No. He isn't— I've made it clear, but he doesn't,” he can't talk, his hips start moving again. He's covered in sweat, splinters from the floor of the cabin. He ends the call, gets the plastic out of his bleeding hands and drops it on the floor, makes a fist to fuck into and closes his eyes as shudders go through him again. He cuts his knee on the broken remnants of the fleshlight, keeps going because he can't control this, can't do anything. Finds his belt and bites down onto it to keep himself quiet, at least, to stop those aching howls from leaving his mouth as he arches his back, fucks up into his hand with every snap of his hips, back scraping along the floor. It's miserable agony, every squeeze of his knot forcing his fingers wider as he tries to wring every last drop of spunk out of himself. The belt in his mouth is ripped apart by his teeth as he goes between forms, the claws on his fingers digging into his thighs. He comes at last, nearly bent double with the force of it as his dick spurts, come coating his belly, his chest. It even gets into his beard, but he's too exhausted to do anything about it, just slumps onto his side, breathing hard, mind clear for a few blessed minutes.

At first he thinks that throaty rattle is an auditory hallucination. By the time he realizes it isn't, it's too late, the jeep door's slamming shut, and he can smell him, cowers in a corner, his claws digging into his thighs. He's got the control. He has to believe he can stay away. He can feel his dick hardening again, digs his claws in further, tries to force himself back into rational thought. Stiles, though. _Stiles_.

The door opens. He should have locked it. Thrown away the key and stayed here until this passed over. Stiles steps over the threshold and he smells like everything that could possibly be good in the world. Derek's _revolting_. He's broken a sex toy with his dick, he's got spunk in his beard, is covered in sweat, come and blood and he's awkwardly into Stiles, to the point where he's pretty sure he's making him uncomfortable.

“Derek, Jesus, breathe. What— this isn't— what's wrong? Scott said you needed me.”

“Leave, Stiles,” he grits out around his fangs. 

“Dude. No fucking way am I leaving you like this. Tell me what you need. Anything, Derek. Anything.”

He breathes deeply, tries to get himself back under control. “You need to leave. I'm trying— I've never wanted to force you, and you've been so understanding about it, I’m dangerous to you right now, I’ll hurt you, and I know you don't want this, so just—” 

“It’s okay buddy, I’ve got you,” Stiles says gently, comes a few steps closer. “I know you don’t wanna hurt me. Just…let’s make this a little easier, huh? It’s better after you come? You’re more lucid?”

He nods like he’s on strings. The effort he’s using to keep still—he won’t be able to hold himself back forever. 

“Okay. Okay, so. Declaw, buddy. I know you can. There, good. You’re so good. It’s okay, you’re doing great,” and he’s flushing, can feel the heat spreading across the back of his neck. “That a thing for you?” Stiles asks, his voice still steady and kind. He nods, can’t take his eyes off Stiles, standing in the middle of this lonely place, feet parted, stance strong. “Now, be gentle with yourself. Wrap your hand around your dick, take it slow. Yeah, that’s good. Perfect. You’ve got time,” and the leftover slick from the fleshlight makes the movement of his hand easy and sweet. Stiles watches him, thumbs tucked into his belt loops, lips parted. “Little twist on the head this time—tease it out. Good. Yeah, I bet you wanna go fast, huh? Enjoy it, though. This isn’t a punishment, Derek,” and that, that breaks him, makes him sob as he comes, orgasm brutally devastating this time. It makes him curl in on himself again as Stiles comes closer, within touching distance, hands him an open bottle of water. “Do you love me?” he asks quietly, each word falling like a stone.

Derek makes himself meet Stiles’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. He’s so tired. “I tried not to. And you’ve been so kind, pretending not to notice when I’ve been so obvious, I’ve kept looking at you, and touching you, and I shouldn’t, I should have more control, and—”

“I didn’t know,” Stiles says, still crouching. “Do you think I’d just—you’re really not as obvious as you think.” He sounds faintly shellshocked, licks his lips, shifts a little. "I want you. I've wanted you for a long time. I think I’m nearly in love with you, too, or at least I’m on the verge of it. I don’t know my mind any more really. But, uh," and Derek can feel all he's wanted slipping out of his grasp with that hesitation, until he smells the arousal, sees his blush, high on his cheekbones, "You’re still pretty out of it, and I think we have to rush this part, and,” he looks down, bites his lip and shifts a little, then takes a breath, his whole face red. “I lubed my butt before I came out, because Scott and Kira gave me this weird werewolf dick related pep talk over the phone that I’m pretty sure Scott had a boner for, so, uh. First round out of the way, then we can get down to the tender lovemaking? I know—I know you want this to be romantic. I've got, like, candles in my jeep, and a mattress, and some fresh sheets and some food, and I want to do the deep eye contact thing, I really do, because it’s important to you, and—”

Derek can’t hold back any more, springs forward and twists them in the air so Stiles lands on top of him in the mattress, hands impatient on Stiles’s jeans, because he wants to see, and Stiles is writhing, steadying himself on Derek’s chest as he tries to get every item of clothing off at the same time. In the end, his clothes seem to come off in spite of both their efforts rather than because of them. When they’re all off, Derek just looks at Stiles, stares up at him, at the glow of his skin in the firelight, the scattered pattern of his moles and the scars he’s earned and the strength of his bones, his muscles. “You’re here,” he murmurs, enchanted. He feels almost drugged with the smell of him, now. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Stiles leans down and brushes their lips together, chastely at first, just a soft promise, then deeper as Derek tilts his head, parts his lips and lets Stiles explore, lets him do whatever he wants. Stiles’s ass keeps brushing against his navel as he makes slight movements of his hips, and Derek can feel the slickness of it, the warmth of the lube as it trickles out slowly. “Can I?” he doesn’t know what he wants to do first.

“Anything, God, please, anything,” so he strokes a hand down Stiles’s back, traces a finger down from the small of his back to his asscrack as Stiles shivers. There’s a lot of lube. He’s still slightly loosened, must have prepped himself before he came out. Derek dips a finger in gently as Stiles makes these little pleading sounds, gasping into his shoulder as his dick ruts up against their stomachs. He uses the finger of his other hand to push in as well, tests how ready he is by pulling him open, wishing he could see his ass, see how it looked, how open it was. Stiles swears at that, hands clenching on the mattress either side of Derek’s head. “Fuck me, please, God I can’t wait any more,” and it sounds like he’s feverish, like he’s the one in thrall to his instincts. 

“On top. Just—let me—” and he lifts Stiles up, loving the feel of his hot, damp skin, “reach back, guide me in,” and oh, his fingers on his dick, slippery with sweat and the remnants of lube and come, a warm grip. The line of his body as he reaches back, trusting Derek to support his weight, is graceful in the soft light. His lips are parted, shiny with spit, and his pupils are blown. His dick’s so hard it looks almost painful, balls drawn tight up. He lowers Stiles gently, stopping frequently and waiting for him to nod each time before he moves. It’s the best kind of torture when he finally gets the head of his dick in, the broken sound Stiles makes as he lets go of Derek’s dick, puts both hands on Derek’s chest and lowers himself the rest of the way. Derek stays still, so still as Stiles takes him in, and it’s tight and warm and perfect as Stiles shakes above him, this fragile, trusting animal. 

“You can move now,” Stiles says after what feels like an eternity, wraps a hand around his dick and arranges his legs so he’s got the leverage to move. He starts a rhythm, riding Derek’s dick as Derek thrusts his hips up to meet him halfway, touches Stiles anywhere he can reach, pressing into the muscles at his sides, scraping his nails lightly around his nipples as Stiles reacts, and gives back. He jerks off slightly out of time with the movements of his hips, a counter rhythm, as he takes Derek’s dick so sweetly.

“You’re so, God you’re perfect,” he pants out, grabbing Stiles’s free hand and bringing it to his mouth, sucking on his fingers as Stiles clenches and convulses around him. He’s close, the movements of his hand becoming frantic, and Derek angles his hips so he can glance over Stiles’s prostate, fucks him relentlessly as he whines and writhes. He can’t take his eyes off Stiles’s face as he flushes, sweat trickling down his forehead, breathing like he’s about to die. Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek’s mouth, pinches at his nipple with spit-slick fingers. “Come on me, please. Come all over me,” he begs and that does it, Stiles makes a cut off noise, arches back and shakes as his dick spurts all over Derek’s chest, his shoulders, his neck, his hand still jerking off through his orgasm, wringing the last few drops of come out. 

Derek keeps fucking him through it, couldn’t stop if he tried, takes Stiles’s weight as he slumps forward, buries his face in the side of Derek’s neck and he’s surrounded by Stiles, the smell of his sweat, his come as he goes faster, wraps his arms round Stiles and pins him so he couldn’t get away, even if he wanted to, even if he struggled. He can feel his knot start to grow, and this time when he fucks into Stiles he stays there, pressed close as he grows inside him, as Stiles opens so sweetly around his knot, his dick hardening between them as he comes, that shivery ache running through him. It’s so much more than last time, so much better. He can’t stop touching Stiles, all that bare skin, desired for so long and now he can—he’s allowed.

“That picture you drew on that napkin didn’t do you justice,” Stiles says hoarsely, shifting his hips a little. It feels so good around his knot, like he’s being milked dry by that clutching pressure. “My prostate and I thank you.” And with that, he starts to move again, just circling his hips a little like he’s just using Derek’s knot as a sex toy, the ridges of his abs as friction for his hard and leaking dick. Derek strokes his hair and lets him, focussing on nothing but Stiles as he brings himself to another shuddering orgasm. When he’s come for a second time, they lie there together, tied still, just drifting. Derek lets his mind float, blissful.

“I caught you some rabbits,” he says suddenly. Stiles grunts. “I was gonna send you a picture when I was skinning them, before I realized that would look a little weird.”

“It explains the blood on the decking,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “What time is it?”

“It’s about seven AM. We can—I think my knot’s down enough for us to separate now. There’s a creek we can both wash in.”

Stiles hums, and with many cursewords and more skin sticking to skin than Derek’s fully comfortable with, they extricate themselves, stand up on shaky legs and look down at the mattress. “That’s…a lot of spunk,” Stiles says, sounds awestruck. 

“Family heirloom,” Derek says with a slight smile. “Generations of unloved Hales have donated their jizz to the cause.”

“What, wait, this is a jerkoff cabin?” and Stiles’s voice has taken on that tone that’s both horrified and gleeful. Derek moves to stand behind him, wraps his arms around him so they’re resting on Stiles’s lower stomach. 

“We called it the love shack, actually. But yeah, it is.”

Stiles leans back into him, kisses him softly. “We can get this place cleaned, then you can help me with the mattress, get this place aired out before we go and wash. You deal with the stove, I’ll open the shutters.”

Derek pads over to the stove, gets it fired up again, puts the kettle on the top. There’s a brush propped up in one of the corners, so he sweeps up the scattered pieces of the broken fleshlight, gets the floor cleared and then pauses to enjoy the sight of Stiles doing housework naked, safe in the knowledge that Stiles had been doing exactly the same thing to him. He packs the sex toys back in his backpack, along with the rope and the chains, leaves the food out. Between them, they get the cabin looking a little less depressing, throw the mattress out of the door and watch with great satisfaction as it thuds down the slope to the creek. They wash themselves quickly, toes curling over the rocks at the fresh coldness of the water. Some of it’s snowmelt; some of it’s from the storm yesterday night. Derek makes himself immerse his head, scrubs at his beard underwater, shakes himself dry, to Stiles’s disgust.

Shivering, they rush back up to the cabin and wrap themselves in blankets to unpack Stiles’s jeep. “Prepare for some romance,” Stiles says as he unlocks the passenger door with a flourish. There’s a double mattress in there, and what looks like a whole store’s worth of bedding, a wicker picnic basket, a cooler and a box full of candles. “I also have the whole of Boyz II Men’s back catalogue on my phone,” Stiles says proudly. “I feel like, with the dead rabbits hanging up over there, the ceremonial dumping of the spunk mattress and the sweet sweet love we could make to _On Bended Knee_ , we’ve got this down.” Derek kisses him; there isn’t really much he can say in the face of such logic. Wearing their blankets like togas, they haul the mattress out of the jeep and into the cabin, stagger under the unwieldy weight of the bedding. 

Making the bed together feels so painfully domestic that Derek can’t quite work out how he feels about it. He keeps waiting for all this to be taken away, for Stiles’s laughter, his bright presence, to disappear, leaving his cabin a colder and more lonely place than before. “You okay?” Stiles asks as he emerges from a pile of quilts. Derek puts a pillowcase on and tries to work out what to say, to work himself through that old conflict between his eagerness to trust and the bitter lessons of his own experience.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says at last, because it’s as close to any kind of truth as he can get. “I didn’t even dare to hope.” And now he’s here, helping Derek to make their bed, and they’ve got a day and a night of this, and he might be planning for forever but he’ll let Stiles decide that part.

“How long?” Stiles asks, throws the second quilt over the bed and moves on to the scatter cushions. 

“It crept up on me. A year. At least a year.”

“We could’ve had a year—no, scratch that,” and his scent turns a little bitter, a little sad. “I think we timed this one just right, Derek.”

For a second, all Derek sees are Stiles’s hands, covered in blood, hears his sobs as they try and call him back from the hell he’s been launched into. He shudders, passes a hand over his eyes. “Good point,” he says, walks over and hands Stiles the pillow then dips his head, nuzzles the side of Stiles’s neck until the sad scent dissipates. “Why do you have so many scatter cushions?” he asks as Stiles arranges their mattress bed to his satisfaction. Denning. It makes him happy on so many levels, but he’d never pegged Stiles for a Martha Stewart type.

“I think I bought them in one of my fugue states. I kept finding them in my room. No recollection of buying them, or why. I could’ve stolen them, I guess. I’ll find out when I try and go into a Bed, Bath and Beyond and the alarms go off. Could have a lifetime ban.”

Derek hums, starts licking the side of Stiles’s neck, loving the way his stubble’s marked him already, reddening the pale skin. He’s getting hard again, not with the urgency of need but with a more pleasurable want, something lazier and more contented. “I’ll buy you bedding,” he says, then starts to suck on the side of his neck, messy and mean, tongue busy on the soft skin as he marks him up with just a hint of teeth. Stiles grasps the back of his head, presses him in as he pushes his ass back, gasping as Derek’s dick slides down the cleft of his ass, catches on the rim of his hole. Derek breaks away from Stiles’s neck, admiring the stark contrast of the lovebite against the paleness of Stiles’s skin. “Do you wanna fuck me? Or I could blow you?”

Stiles drops his head back against Derek’s shoulder. “I have, like, a list. Can I jerk you off? You have no idea how badly I wanted to when I first came in. Just—just to touch you. To make it better.” His voice is low and soft, fits around the shape they make together. Derek nods, leads Stiles to the bed. They lie on top of the quilts, thin morning light seeping through the cracks in the cabin walls, the rest of the light from the soft glow of the stove. Stiles just looks at him, his eyes bright and hungry. Calculating, a little. His mind’s probably shot off in a hundred different directions, all those impulses just ticking along. Derek puts his hands behind his head, waits for Stiles to figure it out. He can understand that kind of information processing. Stiles would make a hell of a good werewolf in a lot of ways, and a terrible one in a lot of others. He shifts his hips a little. He feels his heat kicking in properly again, making him want to run wild, but he’s still got control of himself. The mark on Stiles’s neck catches his eye again and he maybe preens a little, because the look Stiles gives him is knowing, a little quirk to the lips as he brings his hand up to the mark, just traces over it.

Derek lets his one leg hitch up a little, knee to the side, with the distant and slightly horrified realization that he’s possibly just initiated some form of sexual arms race, but Stiles stops holding back, just goes for it, grabs the bottle of lube and scoots up the bed, lies on his side with his head resting on Derek’s shoulder, his whole body pressed up against him and touches him, hand warm as it traces down Derek’s abdomen, tugging a little at his treasure trail. He brushes through his pubic hair a few times, like he’s committing the texture to memory. He can feel every hitch of Stiles’s breath, every jump of his pulse and he knows Stiles is paying just as much attention to his responses. When he finally does wrap his hand around Derek’s dick, he starts a slow and steady rhythm. There’s no uncertainty in it, his hand warm, slick as he breathes open mouthed, loosening and tightening his grip at random, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, brushing over the slit in a way that sends a jolt right through him. Stiles jerks off like he’s trying to fool himself, like it’s a game he plays with his body. 

“You’re so good,” Derek murmurs, reaches down to stroke Stiles’s hair, run his hand down the long line of his neck. “So good at—oh God, do that again. Please. Yeah, like that,” and Stiles keeps that same slow, sweet rhythm going until Derek feels like his orgasm’s being persuaded out of him, like it’s a measured argument as he mentally promises Stiles the moon and stars if he just keeps going, just like this. Stiles does, keeps his rhythm steady as Derek starts to move his hips, to put his feet flat on the mattress and rise up to meet Stiles’s strokes, helpless now in his need to come as waves of sensation peak and crest.

“You’re so perfect like this, so patient for me,” Stiles says, and that’s enough, that thread of pride through his voice, to draw his balls up tight, to make him come with a punched-out groan, his spunk trickling out over Stiles’s hand as Stiles stops moving, just watches, fascinated, as Derek’s dick twitches in his grip, occasionally stroking slightly, making him shudder at the sensation. When Derek can’t take any more, he touches Stiles’s wrist and he lets go immediately. Stiles is hard, has been since he started jerking Derek off. His dick’s left a trail of precome along Derek’s side, but he’s made no move to jerk off, or even paid much attention to it. Derek feels sleepy, turned on in an abstract sort of way, relaxed.

“Can I—I wanna suck your dick. Or—yeah, I want you to fuck my mouth, come in it,” because being specific feels important now. He’s always loved giving blowjobs, that give and take of power, mutual surrender. He loves the feel of it, of hands tugging at his hair, the give at the back of his throat and the control it takes to not gag, to not panic and choke. Stiles stops breathing for a few seconds, and his hips jerk almost convulsively. He smells incredibly turned on, intoxicatingly so.

“God, yeah. Fuck. On your knees?” Stiles asks, already scrambling up, absently rubbing Derek’s come on his skin as he does. Derek watches, hungry. Cold light shines through the boards at his back, a warm glow from the fire lights up the planes and hollows, skitters light along the fine dark hair on his arms and legs, the lighter fuzz on his hips, belly. His dick, fuck, his dick, the dark trail of hair, the heft of it, the gentle curve to the left, the weight of his balls underneath. He wants to lick along the vein running up it, to memorize every scent and texture. He kneels, clasps his hands behind his back and looks up at Stiles. “You okay?” Stiles asks, strokes the side of his face, puts the tip of his thumb into his mouth. He can taste his own come on his skin. He swallows, nods. Stiles keeps his hand on Derek’s face as he takes his dick in his other hand, just touches the head of it to Derek’s parted lips then, as Derek opens his mouth, slowly moves forward. There’s nothing tentative about it, just a long slide in, his hand cupping Derek’s jaw, stroking his face, gentling him through it. “You’re so beautiful. Man, fuck, you’re—I wanna frame you. Like, maybe I could make you a wooden frame and you can stand still in different parts of the room?”

The only thing he can do is roll his eyes right now, so he does. The feeling, though, the bitter salt taste, the sheer animal warmth of his dick, skin soft over his tongue and to the back of his throat is something he never wants to end. Stiles pushes forward more, stops as Derek gags, just a little, breathes deeply and makes himself relax again, then blinks once, so Stiles moves again, the hand at the base of his dick touching Derek’s lips. It feels like a loss when he pulls back, but he pushes in a little faster this time, making these little subvocal whines, the hand on his jaw trembling a little bit as he tries to keep control. His dick’s shiny with spit and precome, deeply flushed, and his thigh muscles are shaking, fine tremors running through them. 

Derek wants him to lose control, and he is, but incrementally, a slow fall. Deeper every time. Stiles puts his hand on the back of Derek’s head, a steady grip on his hair, takes his other hand off his dick, and this time when he fucks forward, he doesn’t stop, easing past Derek’s clutching throat so he can feel the soft crinkled pubic hair at his lips, and he can’t breathe, closes his eyes as he struggles not to gag, as he holds his breath and keeps his hands clasped behind him. Stiles eases back a little, lets Derek gasp a breath, then starts to fuck him in earnest, pulling back so the head of his dick just rests in his mouth, pushing back in and it’s sloppy, messy, and the slurping noises he’s making give him the best, dirtiest feeling as he dribbles, gags, as tears stream from his eyes. Stiles presses right in when he comes, nearly collapsing on Derek as his dick spurts in his mouth, down his throat, then when he pulls out, into his mouth, hot and salty on his tongue. Derek jerks off with his mouth still a little open, with the taste of come in his mouth. A few strokes and he’s arching, shuddering, letting his head drop back and his eyes close as Stiles watches, face flushed, eyes avid, hungry.

“I’ll commission a tapestry,” he says, voice a little shaky. Derek shakes his head, can’t help smiling. He’s still smiling when Stiles kisses him, chases the taste of his own spunk in Derek’s mouth. They make out aimlessly until the faint hunger pangs Derek’s been feeling become too insistent to ignore. He looks over at the grim stack of canned food in the corner with a slightly sinking heart, but Stiles stands up and drags the cooler and picnic basket over to the bed, starts setting out some of the candles in glass jars.

“Thanks. You’re better at this than me. Better at preparing,” he says, getting more logs for the woodburner as Stiles starts putting food on plates.

“It was my modified ‘Derek Hale Seduction Plan’, phase three,” Stiles says airily, waving the hand holding a cold cut of meat in the air. “Plus, you were going for jerking off and pining food.”

“That is different food,” he allows, lighting the gas lamps and the candles Stiles has set out. “You had a plan?”

Stiles shrugs, sets the two plates on the floor and sits tailor style on one of the scatter cushions. “I have lots of plans.”

Derek sits opposite him, loving how casual Stiles has become about his own nudity. The cabin’s warm, intimate in the soft light. Transformed. Stiles seems nervous, eyes darting to his face then back to his plate, but when he picks it up, all he can do is smile helplessly. It looks like Stiles has bought up the entire deli counter, and he’s clearly been in cahoots with the woman who runs it, Margery, because he’s got all Derek’s favorites on the plate. He’s even got those feta cheese and olive skewers, and the bread that’s full of seeds that makes Scott complain about needing to floss his fangs. Derek can’t quite speak for a moment. Stiles’s eyes glow beta gold in the candle light, and he brought him food, and he never thought the mating moon could be like this for him. “I thought I’d bring you, like, a care package once you’d come back after the full moon. I figured you’d want to be looked after, just a little. You spent so long making sure everyone else in the pack was ready, I didn’t think you’d have any time to take care of yourself. But it wasn’t a seduction thing. Just…a me and you thing.”

Derek nods as he starts to eat, eyes closing in pleasure as he has a meal that isn’t grimly functional, its only purpose to sustain. Stiles knew what he needed, and if he’d lasted out his heat without him, he would have given him space to rest and recover, looked after him in his own way, because they’re used to doing that for each other, have been for a long time. And Derek realizes suddenly that he hasn’t really been thinking about life outside this cabin. Life with Stiles, after his heat’s over and it’s back to a life where they’re intertwined even more than before. A relationship. It doesn’t feel frightening, or even that much of a change. It’s another layer of intimacy, but they’ve already seen the worst of each other, so it’s intimacy without secrets, without veils and half-truths. Stiles has his clawmarks across his back, Derek has the memories of a night spent holding tight as the thing that had Stiles hissed poison into his ears, tore him apart. “I love you,” he says, and it feels like the biggest truth he’s ever said.

Stiles looks at him with his whole heart showing through his eyes. “I can’t say it yet. I—I spent too long using words as weapons. But I do. Sorry I can’t just—”

“It’s fine.”

Stiles toys idly with his fork, twirling it in a lazy figure of eight, looks down at his plate. “I guess it is. I’ll work up to it. Five years from now I’ll be saying it every other sentence.”

Derek feels a little bit like he’s been electrified. “You—oh damn, Stiles,” he breathes, nearly knocks over the candles between them in his rush to kiss him, and they clash noses and Stiles maybe stabs him slightly in the leg with a fork, but they get there and it’s perfect. They end up sprawled half on the mattress, eating apples. Stiles keeps making him fang and then bite into the apple, just to see what it looks like. He tells him about how he used to do that with toast, how all his brothers and sisters got really good at making toast snowflakes with their different tooth indentations. Stiles has brought along camomile teabags, makes them a cup each with a small amount of honey in it, and that part’s familiar, but having Stiles tucked under his arm as they lean back against the cabin wall and drink it isn’t. It’s a patchwork of old and new. Adjustments. 

They end up spooning, Stiles pressed against his back. Derek’s got a little bit of an itch under his skin, but Stiles’s proximity is helping him. They’re quietly breathing together when Stiles spots the book Derek had been reading, half under a rug. He snags it with one long arm, looks at the cover. “What’s it about? It’s pretty…purple. And topless.”

Derek tugs him closer again, settles down when he’s near enough, skin on skin. “It’s a romance novel. It’s a romance between a werewolf and a human boy.”

“They meet, hate, then bang?”

Derek shakes his head, takes the book and puts it under the pillow. “It’s set in Scotland. They’re from two clans who’ve been fighting for so long they’ve forgotten why. They meet at peace talks, and when the wolf sees the boy, he’s so…the boy’s so beautiful the wolf can’t find the words to say, so he glares. Their peers argue, and the boy keeps the peace with his companions, and the wolf with his, and the wolf respects him for that. But he keeps quiet about how he feels, conceals his desires with harsh words if he says anything at all.”

Stiles is sleepy, swishes his foot back and forth on the mattress. He kisses Derek’s shoulder, tucks his nose into the side of his neck. “What happens?”

“They get trapped on one of the high mountain passes together. Have to help each other. The wolf learns how to speak around the boy, and the boy learns how to understand the wolf. It’s cold, freezing cold, so they huddle for warmth, rely on each other for comfort, and when the time comes for them to part, they’re friends.” He reaches back, arranges Stiles so his arm’s slung over him, tangles their feet together. “They give each other a sprig of the heather that shows just above the snow, as a token of their friendship and respect, and they embrace then part ways. And that’s how it ends.”

“That seems…a little tame.”

Derek doesn’t quite know how to explain. “They guard each other as they sleep. The wolf brings back the rabbits the boy caught with a slingshot, and they share their food equally.”

“It’s trust,” Stiles says softly, thumb stroking the soft skin on Derek’s stomach. “The first thing they need is trust.”

“It takes until three quarters of the way through the second book for them to even kiss,” Derek admits. And when they do…he shifts a little, can feel the itch under his skin blooming, growing. He’s getting hard again. Stiles’s hand drifts lower, fingers pressing into the skin just above his pubic hair. 

“How do you want me this time?” Stiles asks, sounds a lot more awake than he did five minutes ago. Derek pats down the bed until he finds the lube. 

“Like this,” he says, pumps lube straight onto Stiles’s fingers. Stiles blows out a long breath.

“You do realize I haven’t done this before? This is, like, AP fucking.”

“You’ll be fine. Werewolf healing, remember,” but that doesn’t seem to calm him down.

“I’m not—I don’t wanna break you with my dick. Like, even if you heal I’ve still hurt you.”

He kisses the inside of Stiles’s wrist. “Use lube. Go slow. I promise to tell you—I’ll tell you to stop. I trust you.” Old territory, this. His blood on Stiles’s hands, Stiles’s tears on his skin. “Do you trust me?” Still old territory. It centers him, makes him take a breath, trail his hand down Derek’s back to his ass, makes him circle his rim with teasing pressure. Never quite enough. Small touches. “Stiles—”

“You said go slow,” Stiles says, voice warm. “Slow, tender boning.”

“Start quoting Boyz II Men and I’m evicting you,” he grits out as Stiles slowly slips his finger into his ass, sucks a lovebite onto his shoulder with just an edge of teeth, marks him up, covers him with his scent, his sweat. He bites a little harder when he goes up to two fingers, hooks and scissors them. The movements are practised. “You do this to yourself?” he asks, tries to keep his voice steady.

“When I’ve got time. Y’know, luxury jerkoffs. I like to draw it out. Make it good. I like to...you know, test myself,” and the scent of his aroused embarrassment makes him want to whine, to beg. He can feel Stiles’s hips move a little, like they’re already fucking.

“Show me. Next time—please let me see. Let me see you—oh fuck. Right there,” and Stiles stops playing around, flexes his hand as those _fucking_ fingers take him apart. “Just fuck me, please, I need you,” and he feels so empty, so open when Stiles takes his fingers out, slicks up his dick. Fires run through his veins, and he’d do anything, just anything. He’s promising Stiles the moon and stars as Stiles soothes him, kisses his neck, his hair, peppers his skin with little kisses as he puts his hand on Derek’s hip and guides himself in, letting out these little open mouthed gasps as he presses his mouth to Derek’s skin. When he’s in completely, Stiles wraps himself around him, arms around his chest, legs hooked together until he’s caught in a grip so strong that it would hurt if he were human. It grounds him as Stiles starts to move, uncoordinated but so eager, heart beating fast. He doesn’t fuck in a smooth in and out motion, and he only glances off his prostate but his teeth are pressed to the muscle in his shoulder and he’s pinning Derek, making him stay and it’s that submission, that abandonment that makes him so gaspingly eager. 

He’s completely surrounded by Stiles, by his mate, and it’s already perfect and it can only get better than this, as Stiles’s hands grasp at him and his greedy mouth bites down onto his shoulder, and he’s completely inside Derek, balls deep, making little jackrabbiting motions with his hips like he can’t stand for them to be anything less than completely locked together. Then Stiles’s hand wraps around his dick and it’s even better as he makes a fist for Derek to fuck into as he gets close, as his whole body stops moving and he comes, soundless, suspended. He can smell Stiles’s come, can feel it in his body and he knows every werewolf will know they belong together, and Stiles’s grasp is slack now, but it only takes a couple of thrusts into it before he’s coming too, nearly throwing Stiles off as he shudders his way through it, eyes tight shut, mouth open, gasping.

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, Stiles is giving him a bottle of water, makes him drink the whole thing. They put on their blankets, go outside to wash in the creek, piss against their favored trees then rush back in, shivering. They eat flaky pastries with their fingers, get their lips covered with sugar. Stiles tells him an incredibly meandering joke that Scott’s always found hilarious, and he has no idea why, but it literally makes Scott slap his thigh as he’s laughing. Derek re-enacts the underground beat poetry reading he and Laura ended up gatecrashing when they were escaping from a guy called Kevin who thought he was a witch. They drink orange juice out of the carton, trade sweet, lazy kisses that spread the stickiness from their lips to their necks, their jaws. Behind their ears. Derek offers him a tongue bath when Stiles complains, kisses him mid grimace and sucks gently on his lower lip. It escalates until they’re both panting, covered in stubble burn, lips shiny. Derek feels a little shellshocked, has no idea how the hell Stiles got so good at making out. He hopes he had fun learning. Hopes his lessons were all good ones. 

They sprawl on top of the comforters, talk quietly as the candles burn down, and when Derek gets out of their bed to blow them out, to put the lamps out, open the stove up properly, he has Stiles waiting for him, lying on his side with his head propped up on one arm. “Come to bed,” Stiles says, voice low and smoky in the quiet darkness. He does, climbs over Stiles and curls so his body’s curved, belly to back. “Equal opportunity spooner?” Stiles asks mid yawn.

“That a problem?”

“I get the feeling you go on rallies for equal spooning rights by your slightly belligerent tone. So, uh, no. Spoon away, big guy. Do you—are you okay? With your heat?”

He breathes in Stiles’s scent, so mixed with his own. “I think I’m okay,” he says against Stiles’s neck. Stiles shudders a little. Smells slightly aroused, but not completely. More a baseline level.

“Wake me up if you need me,” he says softly, settles down a little better, makes this little shuffling motion with his shoulders that Derek really shouldn’t find this endearing. Derek drifts off to the sound of his foot swishing back and forth on the bedsheets, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the gradual slowing of his body into sleep. 

He wakes up on top of Stiles, his teeth clamped on the back of Stiles’s neck. He feels like his skin’s on fire, like he’s under attach. Stiles smells sleepy but aroused, not at all scared. “You awake, now?” he murmurs, sounds tiredly amused.

“Stiles, God, Stiles, can I—like this?” He feels like he’s talking around his fangs. “Just—knot you and keep you like this till morning?”

Stiles hisses in a breath, shudders underneath him. “ _Yes_.”

Derek sighs, laps at the bruise he’s made in his sleep. “Lie still. I’ll prep you,” he murmurs into Stiles’s skin, starts scratching his nails lightly down Stiles’s back as he whimpers, hips jerking into the mattress. He runs his nails down his back to his ass, then uses both hands on the smooth skin there, parting his ass cheeks. He doesn’t give Stiles any warning, pins him down with his weight on the backs of his thighs and just licks a broad stripe up his ass, tongue catching on his hole as Stiles makes a noise like an angry cat, tries to get closer and further away at once. Derek keeps him still, grins as he slips into a mix of Polish and English swearwords, then just buries his face in Stiles’s ass and goes to town, licks his ass sloppily with no finesse, shoves the tip of his tongue into his hole in short stabbing motions until Stiles’s ass is red and slick, open, and Stiles is nearly sobbing, biting down on the pillow, clutching the bedsheets. He’ll make him cry with this one day.

He starts straight away with two fingers, slipping them with just the wetness from his rimming easing the way, spits down onto his fingers making Stiles shudder, works his ass open a bit more. His spit makes tacky sounds, little clicks, sucking noises, dirty and lewd in the best way as Stiles begs underneath him, face flushed red, eyes shut tight. Then he licks around his fingers, feels with his tongue how stretched Stile’s ass is, how it tightens and spasms as Stiles shakes underneath him. He gropes blindly for the lube by the side of the mattress with his free hand, squirts some of it on his fingers, most of it on the floor, slicks up his dick. “Please, just fuck me, please,” Stiles whispers into the pillow, voice hoarse before they’ve even started. He pulls his fingers out gently, stares for long moments at how open Stiles looks, how slick and reddened, how his ass clenches around nothing and he’s needy enough to be shameless and beautiful.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, directs Stiles to his hands and knees, touches the head of his dick to Stiles’s hole, holds him steady with both hands on his hips, slides in as Stiles pleads for more, head hanging down between his trembling arms. “There you are,” he says as he bottoms out, leans down and presses a kiss to Stiles’s shoulder. “Taking me so well. Good, good boy. My good boy,” and Stiles just whines at that, it sounds like he’s hurt, like he can’t take it, but he’s still so turned on he’s shaking, can’t even support his head. “You want more?”

“Please, please. Jus’—knot me. Your knot. _You_.”

He gives in to it. To Stiles, and the pull of the moonlight shining through the cracks in the shutters. Fucks him, gives him no quarter, transforms him into this writhing boy underneath him, something feral, clawing his fingers in the sheets, beyond words. Derek fucks him, watches his dick disappearing into the tight clasp of his ass, slicked up by his own spit, smelling like he’s his. He’s still so tight, so responsive, clenching around him then relaxing, adjusting to his size each time, making bereft little sounds when he moves back so only the head of his dick’s inside him then yelling when he thrusts back in, pulling back his hips to meet him halfway. He can feel his knot coming already, faster than it ever has, runs a finger around Stiles’s rim, wondering how it’ll fit, and he’s on the point of asking Stiles, of stopping, when Stiles thrusts his hips back with a jerk, takes him all the way in and just freezes, back arched, mouth open and panting. 

Everything stops, hangs suspended for a few seconds. Stiles’s ass is so tight around his knot; it feels like the best and the worst thing at the same time. He’s pretty close to wolfing out as he comes, it feels like his orgasm’s being torn from him, ripped out of him as his balls draw up tight and his knot pulses as the first wave hits him, spurting deep into Stiles’s ass as he shudders, still thrusting even though he’s as deep as he can possibly go. He keeps moving as Stiles’s cries grow in volume until he’s thrusting upwards as Stiles writhes on his knot, sobbing as he comes untouched. His arms give way and he slumps forward, rim tugging painfully at Derek’s knot until he follows, lies completely on top of him, lightly clamps the back of Stiles’s neck with his teeth as wave after wave of sensation hits him. He’s Stiles’s, and Stiles is his, this brave, beautiful boy who whimpers underneath him, taking his knot so well. “Your _fucking dick_ ,” he whines, and a part of Derek preens.

“I know,” he soothes, slides a hand under Stiles’s hips, wraps it around his dick as Stiles tries to move away. “I know,” and it doesn’t take much to get Stiles hard again, to jerk him off with his own come as slick, relentless, however much he tries to get away. “Just come again, it’ll be so good,” he promises, and Stiles’s laugh sounds a little like a sob. He keeps going, keeps moving his hips so he’s bumping against Stiles’s prostate and it isn’t long before Stiles is coming again, clamped like a vise around Derek’s knot, gasping open mouthed as Derek bites down on his neck, licking at the bruise he left there, making more marks on him as he marks him inside. This time, Stiles goes limp, utterly pliant. He’s nearly asleep when Derek eases them onto their sides again, still tied. Pleasure’s still running through him as he lets sleep take him, soothed by the slow beat of Stiles’s heart, his soft openmouthed breaths.

He wakes up slowly, with none of the urgency of the last few mornings. They untied at some point last night, and Stiles is sleeping facing him, head resting on his hand, snoring gently. He wrinkles his nose as he sleeps, smiles. He smells contented, happy, and even though the tug of the mating moon’s disappeared, Derek’s acutely aware he’s counting his eyelashes in the morning light and smelling his feelings. This is all him. All them. He wants to have this in his loft, in Stiles’s bedroom, motels, hotels, out under the stars, under canvas, in the jeep. He wants every different kind of morning. He’s still lying there feeling incredibly lucky when Stiles wakes up. “There is so much jizz on this bed,” Stiles says, voice still hoarse. He sounds proud, maybe a little horrified. “We started a new spunk mattress. On my mattress.”

“You expect me to believe your mattress, _your_ mattress was completely devoid of any penile emissions?”

Stiles loftily ignores this, shuffles closer to Derek, kisses his cheek then rests his head on his shoulder, lacing their fingers together. “I think I have jizz in my hair. How did that happen?”

“We can wash in the creek before we go back,” he says, pointing his toes, stretching out his legs with a satisfied groan. “Dinner at the McCall house, so we’d better dejizz.”

“That’s not even a word. We can shower at your place. My dad’s expecting me back before I go out to Scott’s, but sharing a shower’s on my list. He wants to see you, too.”

Meeting the parent. It feels so _normal_. He finds normal charming, novel. It isn’t really normal, of course. Not when he’s spent months working with Scott and the Sheriff, trying to find a way of keeping the town safe from Stiles and Stiles safe from himself. Not when the Sheriff’s seen him cry more than once, held him both times. “Does he know? Is he okay with it all?”

“He was with me when I took Scott’s call, was just about to start his shift. He gave me his blessing before I went, said ‘about time’, and told me he was having three days free of eating salad. I agreed. Derek, I was so worried,” Stiles says softly, idly drawing patterns on Derek’s skin. “Scott told me how alone you sounded when you howled, like you were just done with everything and I maybe went into hyperplanning mode? I mean, I nearly used the whole bottle of lube on myself because I was trying to remember all the things Kira said you’d told her about romantic gestures, about love and how it felt with a werewolf, find where we’d put the good sheets, work out how to fit the double mattress in the jeep and prepare my ass for the anatomically correct werewolf dick you’d drawn Kira on a napkin.” Stiles drove here like that. He heard Derek needed help, and he hacked Derek’s GPS, packed his jeep with an inadvisable amount of equipment, and slicked himself up to save time, and it’s nothing like the devastating mating moons the romance novels dedicated whole chapters to. “Sorry it’s not more romantic,” he adds, drawing what Derek’s reasonably sure is a dick on the left side of his chest. 

Derek grins. “You broke the Curse of Saint Valentine, and saved me from become one of countless generations of Hales to spend a solitary mating moon alone in a cabin built solely for jerking off and crying. That’s basically knight in shining armor stuff. I’m swooning. You were perfect.”

Stiles props himself up on his elbow, looks down at Derek with that small crooked smile. “Knights in shining armor don’t have lubed butts.”

Derek gives him a long look, puts his hands behind his head, loving the way Stiles’s eyes skim greedily over the play of his muscles. “This one did. Probably helped with the chafing in all that chainmail,” he say, and smiles smugly as Stiles flops back on the bed and groans. It’s perfect. He wants this moment to last forever. He snags his phone from the floor, puts it on timer and sets it in the far corner of the cabin, angled towards the mattress. He pulls Stiles so his head’s on his shoulder, their limbs tangled together in the covers. He closes his eyes for the picture, can’t help his grin as the shutter sound goes off. He calls the picture ‘fuck you, Saint Valentine’, sends it to Cora and Peter, then puts his phone away. “Now, how about checking that curse is completely lifted,” he says with a smirk. So they do. Thoroughly, and repeatedly. You can never be too sure.


End file.
